Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Teaser
Acknowledgments
Pronunciation Guide
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HEIR TO THE UNDERWORLD
Copyright© 2011 by E.D. Walker
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
HEIR TO THE UNDERWORLD
E.D. Walker
Dedication:
In loving memory of my father, Matt Walker.
Love you lots, Daddy.
Chapter One
The agony of geometry class had ended at last, and Frederica Fitzgerald shot out the back gate of her high school, beating the swarm of her fellow students to freedom. Freddy trudged uphill to her house without stopping to hang. The Dreaded Math Homework would not wait.
The road didn't have a sidewalk, but it wasn't used much by cars. Keeping well to the side anyway, her thigh occasionally brushed the rusted metal of the road divider as she walked. She glanced over the divider now and then, gazing down the incline at the hillside dotted with pine trees and frosted with their needles. The smell of the needles prickled deep in her nose, chalky and dry.
The promise of a storm loomed in the sky and she pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her hair with a sigh.Yesterday was gorgeous. Sunny. Warm. Now the world looked like a sludgy dish drain.
She dug her MP3 player out, tucked her earbuds in, and cranked the volume on an old Regina Spektor album, resigning herself to a long--and potentially wet--walk home.
As the music blared in her ears, ol'Regina sing-screaming about "fightin' for her honor," Freddy's nerves prickled, a bizarre tension gripping her. The air itself seemed wrong, too thick, sparking with power that weighed her lungs down as she breathed in. She whipped her head around, worried someone was following her, but the road remained empty.
A black horse appeared beside her, almost on top of her, in the road. She careened away from the huge, bucking animal, and backed into the guardrail so hard she toppled over the side. She slammed into the ground; the air whooshed out of her lungs with an aching pain. Pine needles crunched beneath her body as she slid down the slight incline.
Laying there gasping and shaken as she stared at the canopy of pines, Freddy tried to understand where the horse had come from. Even with her earbuds in, she should have heard the animal coming, should have seen it on the road ahead of her.
Had a freaking horse materialized out of thin air?
The horse whinnied and she bolted upright, irrationally scared the animal would jump the guardrail, but then she noticed the animal's rider. The rider's muscles strained in his bare arms as he brought the horse to heel with a sharp tug of the reins. The brutish horse glowered at her, but his agitation eased at last.
Freddy gulped, and her heart stopped trying to batter its way out of her chest.
The rider dismounted, leather soles slapping on the pavement as he landed. A floppy straw hat screened his face from view, and he kept his back to Freddy as he soothed his stallion.
The rider wore some kind of historical costume, a molded leather breastplate over a short-sleeved blue tunic. A woolen cloak in a darker blue draped over his left shoulder and fastened to the right one by an ornate plant-shaped pin. He didn't have any pants on under his tunic. Seriously weird. Sturdy leather sandals laced to mid-calf completed his ensemble. Freddy wasn't an expert, but she thought he was going for a sort of Greco-Roman look.
Why he's wearing his costume out and about, trampling people on a monster black horse, I do not know.
After a minute more had passed, with the rider still crooning to his now-calm horse and ignoring her, Freddy snapped out, "Oh, don't bother about me. It's cool. I don't mind that your horse nearly killed me." Nerves still shocky after the close call, her voice broke. Embarrassed, she swallowed the lingering fear, not wanting this rude stranger to see her so scared.
The rider turned to her, mouth open, eyes wide as they flitted all over her face. He half-stepped toward her, his voice harsh and low. "Who are you?"
As far as heartfelt and concerned apologies went…this one was somehow lacking.
If he'd apologized or, hey, asked if she was all right, Freddy would have been fine. But his total lack of concern nearly undid her control, causing pointless, immature tears to pool in her eyes. Deciding that anger was more soothing than bawling, Freddy glared at the shadowed face under the bizarre hat. "What are you wearing?"
He blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"Your clothes." She gestured up and down to indicate his whole outrageous outfit. "You're going for a Roman solider, right? Is there a reenactment around here or something?"
Wariness sprang into the boy's eyes, and another flash of annoyance zipped through Freddy. If he was that embarrassed by his hobby, why was he riding around in public wearing a costume?
He spoke slowly, scanning the ground with his eyes. "Yes. There is a gathering of reenactors up the hill." He had the faintest trace of an accent, nothing she recognized, but the formality of his words and the precise, clipped way he talked showed he wasn't from SoCal. That made sense, not too many Roman reenactors in America, after all. "I was running late, you see."
Figures. She clenched her teeth in irritation. "Is that why you were riding your horse like a freaking idiot?"
The rider laughed suddenly, a sincere, bone-deep rumble. "Yes, I am an idiot. Beg pardon. But you should learn to look where you are going."
Freddy popped her mouth open in violent indignation. "You ran me over, pal."
"Are you injured?" He moved forward and pushed his hat off his head.
To call him attractive would be a modest assessment.
Basically…the guy was hot. Tall. Dark. So handsome it made her teeth hurt. She stared at him, suddenly aware that pollen and dirt covered her, that pokey pine needles clung to her clothes, that she was grubby and sweaty and totally not hot just then. Hiding her embarrassment, she straightened her spine and met his stare.
His eyes glinted, an odd amber color that caught the light and made her stomach flutter. The charming smile broadened as she stared at him. Leaning over the guardrail, he offered her his hand.
Rolling her eyes, Freddy forced herself to stand unassisted clambered over the guardrail, still pissed about the "look where you're going" remark. "Enjoy playing dress
-up!" she tossed off as she stalked past the rider and his stupid horse with her chin high, intent on continuing her interrupted walk home. She had geometry homework to do, and this guy--hot as he was--seemed a little too arrogant for her tastes.
Even if he was a stone-cold fox.
The rider followed her, towing his horse behind. "Where are you going? Perhaps I can escort you there to make amends."
"I am going away from you." Freddy redoubled her pace, feeling the first stirring of alarm that maybe the boy was dangerous somehow. Why was he following her?
He fell easily in step beside her and leaned over to peer at her face. "Do I know you?"
Freddy turned so her hood shadowed her face, hoping to signal she was not in the mood to be flirted with. "No, you don't."
"Perhaps I know your father."
Freddy paused and looked over at the boy, especially at his meticulous historical costume. Her dad used to perform on the local Renaissance Faire circuit, and this kid seemed like a good candidate to be a RenFaire fanboy. "Do you go to the SoCal RenFaire?"
He smiled, absently reaching behind to stroke his horse's long nose as the animal shifted from foot to foot, looking antsy. "I do. Your father works there, yes?"
She half-shrugged her shoulder. "He used to perform in the jousts. Then he made swords. He's retired now."
"I think I remember his booth. And you. You helped him run it."
Freddy stopped and faced him. She gave a slow nod. "Yeah, but I was younger then."
He gave a self-deprecating snort. "So was I, and far too shy to talk to the pretty girl with dimples at the sword booth."
Heat splashed over her cheekbones, and she fought not to smile and flash said-dimples at him now. This adorable boy had thought she was cute as a gawky eleven year old?
So…what did he think of her now?
Oh, jeez, Fred. Just because Mr. Roman Armor was gorgeous, didn't mean she had to go all gooey over him and turn into a fluttering nitwit. Right?
Right. Duly chastened, she still let him fall in step beside her as she walked home.
He tugged the reins of his reluctant horse but somehow managed to match her long strides. "Does your dad still sell swords? He did excellent work, I recall. And I could actually afford one now."
At those words excitement flared along Freddy's nerve endings, but she kept her face bland. Her parents had said they couldn't afford to get her the new laptop she wanted for her birthday. But her dad's swords sold for really good money. Darting a look over to her new friend, at his well-made and thoroughly authentic looking outfit--not to mention the bit of fine horseflesh he dragged behind himself--plans for her new laptop hatched in her mind.
How old was he? He looked about her age, maybe a year or two older, but she didn't know anyone near her own age who talked the way this guy did. Or anyone with several hundred dollars to burn on an ornamental sword. Owning his own horse, this dude probably had a rich mommy and daddy.
She turned to him and pasted the friendliest of friendly smiles on her face, ready to lay the groundwork for a sword-selling push. "What's your name?"
"My name is Smith."
"Smith?"
"Yes." He beamed at her. "Guy Smith."
"Right." That is a made up name if I have ever heard one. Her insides twisted with uneasiness. Mr. Smith, Guy Smith was bigger than her, stronger, and he seemed to have no trouble keeping pace with her.
Still smiling, she swung her bag around and palmed her pocketknife while she also fished out some gum to cover the action. Her dad liked weapons the way most dads liked baseball, and he'd given her the knife as soon as she grew old enough not to lose a finger. She popped the gum into her mouth and hid the knife in her sweatshirt sleeve. Just in case.
Mr. Guy Smith fell in step beside her again. "And who are you? What are you called?"
She glanced at the power line for inspiration. A murder of crows stared down at her from the power line, all their beady little eyes following her progress. Creepy. Shaking herself free of the odd moment, she smiled big and turned back to her unwelcome companion. "I'm Jane Jones. Nice to meet you, Guy."
He narrowed his eyes, but matched her grin with one of his own. "Jane Jones is not your real name."
She scoffed, annoyed that he was calling her on her lie without acknowledging the whooper he'd just told her. "My parents aren't very imaginative." She stopped and pivoted on her heel to face him. But she misjudged her timing, and nearly bumped into him when she turned. Stumbling in surprise, she lost her balance. Guy reached to catch her, his hands going around her arms.
She stared at him as he steadied her, her brain going fuzzy as she tilted her head back to see his face. She hadn't realized he was so tall. He was taller than her--a new experience for Freddy, who, at nearly six feet, had always been taller than most of the boys of her class. Even now she was in high school, she was taller than everybody--girls, boys, teachers. But Guy Smith topped her by a few inches.
As he continued to hold her, she couldn't help noticing how nicely his arms fit around her, how exactly the hollow of his cheekbone would press against hers, how accessible his lips would be for kissing…
He seemed to have a similar idea, as his arm banded around her waist to pull her against him.
Tingling all over, conflicting signals riddled her body. Half of her screamed to push him away, the other half cried out to embrace Mr. Smith and never let go.
Stalemate.
Freddy put a hand out to stop him pulling her any nearer. His heart beat a tattoo beneath her palm that she could sense even through the leather breastplate. Could he feel the way hers thundered against her rib cage? He's gonna kiss me. She stared at his full lips, at their sardonic curve, and wasn't sure what she would do if he tried. Anxious and excited, all her nerve endings seemed to spark inside her.
But he only pushed back the hood of her sweatshirt to uncover her hair. He coiled one of her red curls around his finger. "I suspected you for a redhead. Your temper, after all." His gaze met hers, and a soft, intense heat flared inside Freddy.
Abruptly, he dropped her hair and, swifter than her gaze could follow, his hand shot out to pull the knife from her sleeve. He released her and moved to examine the steel pocketknife with an approving eye. She tensed her muscles and waited with wary attention for his next move. When he flicked the blade open, Freddy flinched in fear, prepared to bolt.
But almost as soon as he'd opened the pocketknife he snapped the blade closed then grinned at her. "Cold iron. Very clever, and a fine weapon. Though a trifle inadequate for big game hunting." He tossed the blade back to her.
She caught her knife out of sheer reflex and gaped at him. How could he have seen me palm it?
Guy darted another grin at her then walked around to mount his horse, presenting his back to her.
Off-balance and wildly confused, emotions tumbling, brain fumbling, Freddy remained speechless. Who is this kid?
He swung easily into his saddle, leather creaking as he settled his weight. "Meet me tomorrow, dear Jane? I should like to make recompense for that unfortunate close call." Riding in close, he grinned that irresistible grin and offered his hand to her. "I wish to further our acquaintance if you will let me. If you would care to."
Hesitantly, she shook hands with him, his palm smooth and warm as it slid against hers, the contact sending her body into a new fit of hot, excited flutters. Feeling silly, she dropped his hand and tried to keep her voice flat, even as she nodded. "I guess we can hang out for a bit."
"Tomorrow? After school?"
She hesitated and chewed her thumbnail. "How about you meet me at Biaggio's? It's a little Italian place. I can walk there from school."
"Certainly."
And there will be lots of other people in case you're a nutcase. She jerked her chin at the big black brute he was sitting on. "Leave the horse at home."
"Balios does not like Italian at any rate."
She stifled a smile. "Well, have fun with your Roman…stuff."<
br />
"Yes…I will." He gave her a grin, but the expression didn't warm his eyes, which had gone unfocused, distant. His mind suddenly seemed a million miles away. "You should hurry to your home, dear Jane. Now's no time for innocent maids to be about." With no other goodbye, he rode off around a curve in the road.
Freddy jumped as the cawing crows shattered the bubble she'd disappeared into with Guy. One large bird soared away from the power cable, disrupting all its companions as it flapped into the clouds.
She shook her head, trying to rattle her thoughts into some kind of order or at least jostle herself out of her fantasy--if Guy Smith had been no more than a daydream. Every step toward home made her less certain she hadn't imagined the whole encounter. Guy appeared too good to be true in many ways--not the least of which was the fact he was attracted to her.
He could be a creep, an absolute geek, or a million other things that would make her regret going out with him tomorrow. But she might be able to sell him one of her dad's swords.
Also, Mr. Smith was, of course, the most gorgeous boy she'd ever seen, and Freddy wasn't about to pass up any opportunity to ogle him.
Jeez, I'm shallow.
Chapter Two
Freddy arrived at her house soon enough: a squat, one story stucco her parents had bought cheap. Her family lived in a good neighborhood, but the Fitzgerald house was a fixer upper that, in the sixteen years her family lived there, had never managed to get "fixed." She let herself in and crossed to the kitchen.
Freddy's dad made dinner while she pummeled away at her math homework the smells of her dad's fried chicken as enticing distraction.
When all was ready, Freddy called her artist mom in from her work station in the garage then happily dumped her own math homework back in her bag to clear the table for dinner. Freddy's mom came in still wearing her painting clothes--an old sweater and tight black leggings. She'd twisted her wavy brown hair around a pencil, and random pieces had escaped to frame her pale face and sleepy brown eyes. Freddy sighed. She could spend hours laboring at her appearance and never be half as gorgeous as Mom.
Heir to the Underworld Page 1
